Forbidden to Love the Duke

by Jillian Hunter

  “As well as you manage me?”

  This was neither the time nor the place to prove herself to the grinning blackguard. Ivy hoped, however, to have improved her management skills before their next encounter. At minimum she must come to terms with her own expectations. Would she be content to become the duke’s mistress? She knew the answer. But was she prepared to lose him?

  * * *

  James’s melancholy had lifted. He still felt a dark threat in the air, but through it a few rays of light had penetrated so that the rest of his life did not seem as bleak as it had an hour before, when he realized he had serious competition for Ivy.

  If he had to fight a duel to prove his manhood, then he would fight a duel. Even though it meant learning to use a gun with his left hand. Time was his true rival.

  Time, and whoever was at his study door as he sat contriving excuses to seek out Ivy to apologize for his behavior. Or to resume where they had left off. He hadn’t imagined that she’d fused her sweet body to his and kissed him like a sorceress who had just discovered her own power. He was still as hard as steel. In fact, he should check whether it was her at the door.

  No. Ivy wasn’t privy to Carstairs’s secret code of knocks. His rap-rap-RAP meant an important person had come to call, a person James knew.

  He rose from his desk and scowled at the door. It wouldn’t be Wendover, annoyed that James hadn’t returned to the lake to fish. Wendover would not bother knocking.

  “What do you want, Carstairs?”

  “I regret interrupting you again, Your Grace, but there is another gentleman here from London who claims you are acquainted and insists on speaking with you.”

  “It’s not that rhyme-maker again?”

  “Oh, no, Your Grace. But—I’ve a sense there might be a connection to our governess.”

  “Is this ‘sense’ grounded in fact, Nostradamus, or is it a message you received from another world?”

  Carstairs chuckled. “He mentioned Fenwick Manor, Your Grace.”

  “Dear God. Send him in.”

  James returned to his desk. Now what? A confrontation with another suitor for Ivy’s hand? Who could blame the woman for hiding inside that house for so long? No wonder the gardener had let the thistle and thorns grow roof-high to conceal the Fenwick sisters from the world.

  But a wall of thorns hadn’t protected Ivy from James.

  He glanced up in surprise at the gentleman Carstairs ushered into the room. He was in his late sixties, with tousled gray hair, jacket too short in the sleeves, and a high-quality coat that needed a good cleaning.

  “Don’t you remember me, Ellsworth?” he asked, dropping into a chair without waiting for an invitation.

  James narrowed his eyes. Where in the world would Ivy have met this person? “Have we met?”

  “You lost a hand of cards to me at the club.”

  “Did I?”

  “Then I lost three to you.”

  “I don’t doubt your word, but I’m afraid I still don’t remember.”

  “A crowd of us went out after your victory to celebrate and ended up sailing down the Thames on a barge with several amorous women. I fell off, and you saved me.”

  James expelled a sigh. “Now I remember, Ainsley Farbisher. What brings you here?”

  “I understand you are managing a property I would like to acquire.”

  “A . . . property?” James felt the muscles at the back of his neck tense in forewarning. It was one thing for James to covet Ivy as a treasured possession. It was quite another for a gin-soaked old gent to sit across his desk and echo the same sentiment. “I hope you are not referring to a person in my employ.”

  Ainsley’s eyes bulged. “Good heavens. I was speaking of the attractive parcel I passed on my way here. The house that stands beyond the stone bridge.”

  “You mean Fenwick Manor?”

  “Yes, that’s it. The Tudor estate in the oak wood.”

  “And you don’t wish to marry any of the ladies who occupy the house?” he asked, scowling in suspicion.

  Ainsley contemplated the question. “Is that a condition of acquisition?”

  “Have you ever seen the inhabitants of the manor?” he asked pointedly.

  “No, I haven’t. Is it in use as some sort of an asylum?”

  “Excuse me?” James asked, masking a smile.

  “I was told by a tavern keeper that several men who’d visited the manor had disappeared inside the house and that their remains were never found due to tragic circumstances or—” He wavered, appearing afraid to continue.

  “Or what?” James asked, completely enjoying this legend of the Fenwick sisters.

  “—or else the house is currently in use as a country brothel and the men who enter would rather die than leave.”

  James did smile then. “Ainsley?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Come here and take a look at my boots.”

  Ainsley obeyed, withdrawing a handkerchief from his coat to dab at his brow. “Handsome, they are. The height of fashion.”

  “I’m glad you approve. Your head will be pinned beneath the sole of one if you make another ridiculous remark about asylums or brothels.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  Ainsley returned to his chair in relief. James leaned back. This was no coincidental offer. Had the acquisition of Tudor manors become the latest rage among London’s aristocracy? Or had the mystery of four beautiful sisters sparked interest in another type of procurement? All James knew was that he felt compelled to guard their privacy from young poets and old fools and probably everyone ill-intentioned who fell in between.

  “How did you hear about Fenwick?”

  “I can’t remember,” Ainsley said, blinking at the change in James’s tone. “Must have been at the club.”

  “Odd topic of conversation for gentlemen gamblers in London, don’t you think?” James asked, his eyes boring into Ainsley’s.

  Ainsley slid to the edge of his chair. “No. No, we’re always boasting about who has inherited or won the largest acreage. Distressed properties with that much potential don’t land in one’s lap every day.”

  “Perhaps you read about it in the news,” James suggested.

  Ainsley’s eyes lit up. “That’s it, of course. I’m always dipping into papers that passengers leave in their coaches. My wife brings them home by the basket when she takes the stage to visit her mother.”

  James started “Your wife?”

  “Yes. Alvina.”

  “Why the deuce are you asking about marrying vulnerable young ladies when you have a wife?”

  “I only asked if the marriage were a condition of sale,” Ainsley said, clearly miffed. He came so swiftly to his feet that he knocked his cane across the floor. “On second thought, perhaps it would all be too much for me to manage.”

  “What? The manor house or the Ladies Fenwick?” James picked up the cane and handed it to the gentleman, who seemed in a sudden rush to leave.

  Ainsley backed out the door, bowing awkwardly. “Good to see you again, Ellsworth. Hope we meet soon at the club.”

  James followed the man to the hall to demand further explanation, but the instant Ainsley slipped outside, another visitor approached, commanding his complete attention.

  Ivy had scraped her lustrous hair into a lopsided knot and changed into a bleached white dress with blue ribbons banded beneath the modest bodice. Her mouth looked dark and swollen from their kisses, a sight that immediately emptied his mind of everything but lustful hope. Or hopeful lust. She turned him inside out.

  “I want a moment of your time, please, Your Grace,” she said. “If it is not inconvenient.”

  He ignored the crispness of her voice, the rigid lift of her shoulder when he stepped closer to her. “Would you prefer we spend this
moment together in the Chinese Room?” he asked, his smile impudent. “And it’s no inconvenience at all.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  She moistened her bottom lip. Right then he could have handed her the keys to Ellsworth Park. She was the woman that had eluded him all his life. “No? You mean—do you want our encounter to take place here, now?”

  Her eyes met his. “Not that sort of encounter, you single-minded knave. I’m not going to let you deceive me again.”

  He studied her. “I deceive you?”

  She was breathing fast, her skin shone, and her hands were clasped behind her back, not in modesty, he realized. But in restraint. She wasn’t aroused at all. She looked ready for a bout of fisticuffs.

  “I didn’t lose fairly,” she said.

  He grinned. “It doesn’t matter. I won, and I don’t care whether it was fair or not. You fell into my arms.”

  “I won’t fall that easily in future. I don’t like losing to a cheater. I was only doing my job. That incident shouldn’t have counted. You’ll have to be at death’s door for me to make a mistake like that again.”

  James frowned as if listening intently to every word she said. Which he wasn’t. Her message, however, he understood. She was angry at him, and it wouldn’t last. He adored her. That was enough for a man to assimilate in one day. He wasn’t ready to admit it to her. But he couldn’t deny the truth to himself.

  “At death’s door,” he said. “That is an unkind sentiment. I am hurt to the quick. What did Shakespeare have to say on the subject, ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have an ungrateful governess’? To think that I saved you from the windowsill.”

  “And I appreciated that.”

  “You don’t sound appreciative.” As a matter of fact, she sounded as if she wanted to murder him. And he wanted to keep her in this house for the rest of their lives. He saw the future clearly: Ivy arguing with him in the doorway and him giving her orders afterward that had nothing to do with domestic affairs. Ivy, in his bed, inviting him to take pleasure in her body. Ivy, reading to their children.

  A footman passed through the hall.

  Ivy turned her head. “That’s all I wished to say. I was only trying to do my job the day you rescued me from the windowsill.”

  He realized he shouldn’t tease her. Yet how could he resist? “Do you know what my job is?”

  “To taunt every woman you meet?”

  He took the hit, reminding himself not to underestimate her. “That was also unkind, Lady Ivy.”

  “How remiss of me. I forgot that Your Grace is such a tenderling who must be mollycoddled.”

  He smiled. “The worst sin I have committed is to find you irresistible.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not certain where you have acquired your religious instruction. Perhaps at the Hellfire Club. But if you are curious about the definition of the sins we have both committed, I’m sure the parish church would be pleased to provide you with a Bible.”

  “Thank you for the advisement,” he said after a pause to imply that he’d taken her warning to heart. It wouldn’t do a damn bit of good, but he’d play along.

  She eyed him narrowly. “My conscience has been bothering me all afternoon.”

  He looked at her without blinking. “Mine hasn’t.”

  “Well, that’s all I meant to say.”

  “Then I’m glad you said it.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

  “I won’t touch you again unless you beg me. You won’t touch me unless I’m about to be lowered into my grave. If that’s what you want.”

  She swallowed. “I think that would be for the best.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. It wouldn’t be the best for him, but he could wait, knowing that she’d be worth every damn minute of suffering until he held her in his arms again.

  “Then thank you,” she murmured, and dropped a curtsy as if she had read his thoughts and hastened to leave before temptation got the better of him.

  It almost did.

  But somehow he was able to nod, feigning compliance, and watch her walk away, pretending he had conceded to her wishes, which weren’t unreasonable.

  There were times when a man had to toss a lady over his shoulder, give her a good smack on the behind, and master her until the next morning.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  But it wouldn’t be long now.

  And his blood clamored for the day.

  Chapter 21

  Ivy had been reading from A Midsummer Night’s Dream to the children before bed. Walker refused to settle down unless Mary stayed until he fell asleep. The one night that the duke had insisted he go to sleep by himself, the boy had been seized with night terrors and was found wandering about in the hall, oblivious to his surroundings.

  At last he nodded off. Ivy closed the book. “You may read in your room for fifteen more minutes before you go to sleep, Mary. You know I’m in the next room if Walker wakes up. Heavens, I’m so tired I can hardly move.”

  No sooner had she closed her eyes to take a momentary rest than thunder boomed from the fields beyond the house. Five minutes or so later a series of blasts drew her—and Mary—to the window.

  “Walker hates thunderstorms,” Mary whispered, wide-awake and scornful.

  Ivy studied the clear starlit sky. “I don’t see a single cloud.”

  “Isn’t tomorrow your day off?”

  “Yes, but I have work to do here. And I’m having my stitches taken out.”

  “Did Uncle James forbid you to see your lover?”

  Ivy turned to the girl in exasperation. “No. He forbade you to discuss adult concerns. I do not have a lover.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Run off to your room before you disturb your brother. The thunder seems to have stopped now, anyway.”

  Another boom resounded from the fields. Walker sat bolt upright and bellowed, “The French are coming! Papa! Uncle James!”

  “Dear me,” Ivy muttered, and gave Mary a nudge toward the door. “It’s only thunder, Walker,” she said, drawing the curtains on the starry night before she left the window to console him.

  He had dropped back off to sleep before she reached the bed. Mary stared at him from the door. “You told a lie, Lady Ivy. It wasn’t thunder at all.”

  “Well, whatever it was, it’s over now. Perhaps there are poachers in the woods.”

  “My mother would thrash Walker for wailing like an infant.”

  Ivy tucked in the covers and joined the girl at the door. “If your brother asks, which I doubt he will, you are to assure him it was thunder he heard—unless you wish to stand in the corner tomorrow.”

  “I shall tell Uncle James.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What if he dismisses you?”

  “Then you will soon be arguing with another governess.”

  Ivy heard the girl’s apology but did not linger to acknowledge it. She hurried to her room and from the window witnessed the duke canter into view on his gray. His cloak billowed out like a black sail. The two heavyset men riding in his wake enhanced his dashing, devil-may-care appearance.

  Ivy felt an irrational urge to open the window and demand to know what he had been doing at this hour. Perhaps it was at this unguarded moment of emotion that the green-eyed monster of jealousy crept into the chamber and, finding a disquieted soul, offered to keep her company into the night.

  She would have been better off with Mary’s precocious honesty or Walker’s fears. Her uninvited guest tormented her with sly dialogue.

  Where would the duke have gone so mysteriously, in the middle of the night?

  He could have gone to visit a neighbor, Ivy reasoned. Or a tenant who had taken ill after supper. That was a decent landlord’s duty.r />
  He could have gone in search of the sexual gratification you refused him. Do you not remember how his reception room overflowed with women on the day of his interview?

  Ivy could hardly forget.

  But he had chosen her—as a governess.

  He kissed you at a masquerade ball five years ago. Twice you have let him go now.

  Ivy stood firm. He’d probably gone hunting. She had heard gunshots fired.

  Indeed, the voice mocked her. And his prey begged to be caught. What do you know of the games that sophisticated lovers play?

  Ivy drew back into the curtains. As James drew nearer, he swayed unsteadily in the saddle and then slid to the ground without his customary agility. One of his companions dismounted and hastened to his side.

  Ivy’s heart raced. Had he been shot? It didn’t seem possible that anything could diminish his vitality. He had been injured at war and survived to return to the ruling class. Still, he was mortal, no matter how everyone had come to place him on a pedestal.

  He’s been fighting over a woman, the voice taunted in glee.

  “You wicked man,” she said, wanting to pound her fist on the window and run to his aid at once. The sinner. Risking his life over a woman who wasn’t Ivy or even the lady from London he invited to sin with him in his exquisite home.

  Fickle, the voice said in the silence.

  Amoral.

  Passionate.

  She wished she could ask her sisters’ opinion instead of listening to this plaguesome voice in her head. Her sisters might try to confirm her first suspicion, that the duke had merely been out hunting.

  But for what at this time of night? Or whom? And why did he need assistance to dismount? Was he drunk?

  Rosemary would advise her to ask him in the morning and not lose any sleep over what was only speculation tonight. But Rosemary had never been kissed by a charismatic duke at a masquerade ball or swept off to his bed in what would have been a romantic moment except for the hideous gash on her wrist and the presence of Elora in the adjoining room.

  Ivy wasn’t going to question him in the morning about his late-night rendezvous. He would only consider her curiosity a sign that she could not stop thinking about him if put to another test, which was obviously true. But Ivy needn’t give him another reason to gloat.